


A Place

by s0mmerspr0ssen



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Grief, Mentions Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-12
Updated: 2011-09-12
Packaged: 2017-10-23 16:27:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/252415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/s0mmerspr0ssen/pseuds/s0mmerspr0ssen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Returning from his mother's funeral, all John Watson wants is to finally come home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Place

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/7277.html?thread=37185901#t37185901).

The tube was as busy as ever.

Men in suits on their way to or back from work, mothers with crying and laughing children alike, teenagers and their resounding iPods, tourists from at least six different countries (and their backpacks) and a group of older ladies suspiciously eying a young man with a mohawk, as if the green hair dye had personally offended them in some way.

John felt almost completely invisible in the crowds, having chosen a seat rather close to the door. His grey jacket blended in perfectly with the masses, as did the dark brown travelling bag resting on his lap. Just some bloke riding the tube. Nobody special at all.

None of the people around him knew that he was an ex-army doctor with a scar from a bullet wound in his shoulder, that he lived with the world's only consulting detective and solved crimes and chased madmen on a regular basis. None of them realised that the CCTV at the nearest tube station was controlled by the brother of John's flatmate, undoubtedly keeping an eye on John returning to London and Baker Street.

His life was not very ordinary, John knew that. _Extra_ ordinary, rather, something very special.

Today, though, John Watson felt about as far from special as one could probably get. Rather, he thought, his current state of mind could be compared to one of the last leaves falling from the trees in autumn: devoid of any colour, parched and a fair bit brittle.

He supposed that it was normal feeling this way when you were just returning from burying your own mother.

Swallowing against the lump in his throat, John tried not think about her. There had been too much reminiscing at the service and the funeral already, with relatives bringing old photographs and sharing old stories, telling John about things he had never even known.

But what else was there to think about?

John definitely didn't want to think about Harry, whose hair he had held back in the bathroom three times before and after the funeral. Drinking herself almost to unconsciousness seemed to be the only coping mechanism she had. John also didn't want to think about his Uncle Peter, his usually benevolent and happy features lined with grief over his younger sister's death. Frankly, John Watson didn't want to think at all.

What he wanted was _home_.

Home had long ceased to be the small house in the countryside that Harry and he had grown up in, the house their father had had his heart attack in and the house their mother had continued to inhabit until her own death.

No, the small house with the yellow walls and the slightly warped roof was not _home_ anymore.

When John thought of home now, his mind came up with another image entirely. He saw wallpaper with horribly old-fashioned patterns, and way too many stairs. He saw worn-out furniture, one piece clashing with the other, and a human skull on the mantlepiece. He saw shelves filled with books and some things he didn't even know the name of and Britain's untidiest kitchen.

And in the middle of it all, a man, tall and slender and impeccably dressed. Or wrapped into a rather threadbare dressing gown, brooding. Or bowed over an experiment.

Home was 221B now, had been for nearly two years. John honestly couldn't tell what had been home before that. Certainly not the small room the military had provided. Definitely not Harry's. Maybe it had still been the yellow little house then. Or maybe, he simply hadn't had a home after returning from Afghanistan.

Lost in his thoughts, John might have almost missed his stop, had it not been for the young man with the mohawk standing up and leaving, and the immediate gasps of outrage when the group of old ladies caught a glimpse of his spiked belt.

Shouldering his bag, John slipped through the already closing door, causing it to beep and open again. It was lucky for the woman who had been running to catch the train and now wouldn't have to wait for another one. She sent John an almost thankful smile as they brushed past each other.

Walking toward the stairs, travelling bag heavy against his good shoulder, John tried to ignore the pulling pain in his leg. It wasn't remotely as bad as it had been before meeting Sherlock, but it was definitely there, making it difficult to walk without at least a slight limp.

John thought he had been past that. Apparently not. Maybe, grief could do that to you.

Taking the stairs, careful to distribute the weight unevenly and one hand curled around the handrail, John blinked up into a grey London evening. It wasn't really raining, but a faint drizzle made the walk home just slightly more uncomfortable.

John knew he could have taken a cab. Or, he could have acknowledged the sleek black car conveniently parked at the coach station, with a certain female assistant waiting by the open door.

Neither had seemed the right thing to do, as the former reminded John of thrilling chases and feeling terribly alive, and the latter was Mycroft taking pity on him, which John didn't need, nor appreciated.

So he had taken the tube.

It seemed to be an endless walk until finally, John was standing in front of the familiar building, door rapper covered in tiny little raindrops. Pulling his keys from a pocket, John almost sighed at the familiar sound of the clicking lock. Once he had entered, John took a minute to simply lean against the door from the inside.

Mrs Hudson seemed to be at home, the faint sound of her favourite TV show floating into the hallway, which smelled of lavender air freshener and her special meat loaf. John wondered if she had brought Sherlock some. If she did, he was probably halfway through an experiment with it.

Quietly, John finally moved and slowly went upstairs, careful to avoid the two creaking steps. Somehow, he felt like that would disturb the wonderful quietness of the house.

Arriving at the landing, John took another moment to simply brush his hand over the handle, the wood of the door. He couldn't hear any noises from the inside. Maybe, Sherlock was out and about then, on a case perhaps? John didn't know why that thought made him feel a pang of disappointment.

Shaking his head at himself, John finally opened the door.

As soon as he stepped inside the living room, some of the tension of the last days seemed to leave him. His shoulder sacked a bit, his back relaxed and even the pain in his leg seemed to subside. Letting his bag slide onto the floor, John quietly closed the door and raised his hand, ready to unzip his jacket.

"John."

Head snapping up, John halted his movements.

Sherlock had to have moved incredibly quietly. Seemingly coming out of nowhere, Sherlock was now standing by the kitchen door, wearing his shirt with the sleeves rolled up, a petri dish in his right hand and a smirk on his face. His pale eyes narrowed slightly as they quickly roamed all over John's body, taking in whatever clues John might have brought with him.

"Hey," John spoke up, cringing slightly at how clogged his voice sounded.

A small crease appeared in between Sherlock's eyebrows, but he nodded.

"You're back. Good. I'm just about to finish my experiment." He hesitated briefly, giving John another once over. "Do you feel like going to Angelo's? We could leave in about half an hour, unless my bacterial culture decides to grow unexpectedly, in which case I'll be busy all night."

For some insane reason, John's throat constricted at his friend's words. Nothing seemed to have changed here. Sherlock was busy as ever experimenting, putting his work over basic nutrition and looking way too pale and skinny in the shine of the kitchen lamp.

And, most importantly and unlike any other person John had talked to in the past days, Sherlock wasn't sending John any pitying looks, wasn't trying to make him feel better with meaningless words, wasn't even asking about the funeral he had just returned from.

Sherlock was just being - _Sherlock_.

Taking a shaking breath, John didn't think. He simply let his body shift, let himself walk towards Sherlock, whose eyes were widening slightly as they took in his movements. Mere moments later, John was wrapping his arms around Sherlock's slim chest, pulling him close until his own, smaller body was all but fully pressed against Sherlock's lean frame.

Burying his face into his flatmate's shoulder, John simply breathed.

Sherlock had gone stiff at once, but he was warm and even a tiny bit soft in between all the bones and tendons. The shirt smelled of Mrs Hudson's fabric softener - had he charmed her into doing his laundry again? - and the fabric was cool and smooth against John's cheek.

It was nice.

For a few seconds, Sherlock didn't do anything but breathe shallowly, and John could hear the man's heartbeat speed up where his ear was so close to Sherlock's heart. Then, one long arm carefully, almost tenderly, curled around John's back.

As if on cue, John relaxed fully, all but melting against his flatmate's body, simply enjoying the feeling of being back, of being here, of being this close to the person he associated with home.

It probably was terribly inappropriate. Sherlock and he hadn't embraced each other very often so far, and all of those hugs had been initiated by John in highly emotional or strenuous situations, like surviving another kidnapping or keeping Sherlock warm after he'd fallen into the river.

But this felt so right, so _good_. The stress of the past week seemed to ebb away, making space for a feeling of peaceful calm, something nobody else would ever associate in any way with Sherlock Holmes. Not even John, under the usual circumstances.

But these weren't usual circumstances and John didn't care that they had to look a fair bit ridiculous, two grown men embracing each other by the kitchen door, one of them holding a petri dish, the other still wearing a slightly wet jacket.

He didn't quite know how long they shared the same space until, very hesitantly, Sherlock let go and shifted out of the embrace.

"My experiment," he murmured and John nodded.

He turned, approaching the coatrack, slowly unzipping and hanging up his jacket. He brought his bag upstairs, took a hot shower and changed into a fresh set of clothes. When he finally returned downstairs, Sherlock was rolling down his shirt's sleeves.

"All done," he answered John's questioning gaze. Buttoning his cuffs, he shook his shoulders a bit to adjust the sleeves, then pierced John with his eyes. "What was this about, earlier?"

John merely shrugged.

"Just felt like it," he said, sounding a lot less clogged.

Sherlock gave him another long, observing look, eyes sharp and incredibly attentive. Then, his whole face seemed to soften as he came to the right conclusion.

"Welcome home," he said.

John smiled for the first time in almost eight days.  
____  
 _fin._


End file.
